


Seven Deadly Sins

by voids



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Pining, flower symbolism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-13
Updated: 2017-06-21
Packaged: 2018-08-14 20:19:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8027635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voids/pseuds/voids
Summary: An interpretation of the Seven Deadly Sins starring a stubborn lion knight, a grumpy god of war, and their very own downfall.





	1. Pride

**Author's Note:**

> A series of ficlets I'm writing with the sole purpose of English practising, but i hope you enjoy them nonetheless.  
> Pics are made using SFM.
> 
> Thanks to derryday for beta-reading this chapter!

                  

 

When Ornstein had been made First Knight, he felt pride spreading through his chest, then encased in gleaming golden armor; the helm of that resembling to a lion’s head, bare teeth and grouchy grimace. Six beautiful gems adorned his breastplate, which along with his majestic burden had been praised more than once. The fire of the most deadly of dragons could not even dare to burn it down, as it had been wrought with a mighty power. Lightning was his greatest companion, and so he always carried his spear around, a weapon that had crumbled the stone scales of thousands of mighty beasts that had been brought down with the power it inflicted. It had been said that the spear could even split a boulder in two, something Ornstein had tested once in front of a bunch of covetous silver knights and which resulted in a burst of applause and praise from his comrades.

Along with it, he was truly a sight to behold, one that many would either fear or admire, or even both. He really was a lion dressed in gold, and whenever he wasn’t partaking in the battle cry, he had grown a cold mannerism and dry temperament fair enough for a figure of his stature. Thus, Lord Gwyn foremost awarded to him the title of dragon slayer, a deed that only fueled the engine of his growing pride even more.

In Anor Londo, the ass-kissing would never cease. Whistles and wordiness were one thing, and if his intuition didn’t betray him, he would have sworn even Gwynevere had acted flirtatious with him one particular sundown. He remained unmoved, though. Artorias would often playfully attempt to take his helmet off to ignite his anger, an emotion Ornstein had learned to keep at bay. If he succeeded, he would press his lips over the stubble of his cheek, a “you look good” assurance before retiring for the day. As amusing as it sounded, Ornstein had restrained himself from kicking his comrade’s arse a few times in a row.

Good times.

However, as time went by, wearing the helmet became a habit, and soon, Ornstein forgot how the wind felt against skin.

“There you are.” Someone approaching outside the mighty Cathedral; the carrier of a deep, baritone voice; one that could cause an earthquake might shake even a Lord from his unaffected nature. “The battle is over for now. Allow yourself to breathe through something else than lion’s jaws.”

Gwynsen, the God of War and Gwyn’s Firstborn, addressed him calmly.

“The sun is high today. Take off your helmet and let its rays bathe you.”

And so, Ornstein bowed his head ever so courteously, and obeyed.

Despite his faithful commitment to Gwyn, Ornstein’s purpose was fully devoted to his son, who had led the slaughtering of dragons prior to the beginning of the Age of Fire. Not only this, but he had mentored him long before the knight would even gain all of his titles.

And yet, however.

“You’re a skillful, proud Knight.” Gwynsen had told him in a thunderous night, while pointing at his blood-dripping spear.

“You will grow to be one of the best slayers of dragons this Age ought to know, if not the best of them.” Gwynsen’s voice, swelled with pride for his pupil, reminded him.

“You’re brave, loyal, honorable, clever...” The God of War had recited, and warmth had begun to spread through his chest.

Ornstein had flinched, alienated to the sudden burst of foreign emotion, one he hadn’t experienced in a long time.

“To compensate your efforts, here’s part of my Lord Soul, one I will gladly share with you for eternity.” Gwynsen had muttered in the privacy of his own quarters. It had been the first time Ornstein visited them.

The dragon slayer learned how little the compliments he received really mattered. Out of them all, none would mean as much as Gwynsen’s.

Deep beneath his golden chest armor, the knight’s heart pulsed at a rapid tempo as a flame kindled his then weaker soul to become it something bigger; something greater. It was an agonizing process, as painful as having your insides burned and fire running in your veins; but once done, Ornstein felt completed. As if an important part of his engine had long been missing and someone had recomposed it thoroughly.

“My proud lion.”

* * *

These words. They kept resonating in the confines of his helmet. Now, staring at his own reflection in a dusty silver mirror, Ornstein grimaced behind the menacing snarl of the lion’s façade.

He no longer remembered what pride felt like. 

 


	2. Sloth

                  

 

Once the dragons had been wiped out of existence, or so they believed, Ornstein could barely find a way to entertain himself. He almost pitied the neglect his lightning spear was being put into. He wasn’t the only one who missed the sounds of the battlefield, though; Hawkeye Gough would often sit on top of the watchtower, scrutinizing the winds in presence of an everlasting creature. By the time the sun went down, his eyelids would start to fall shut, and his hands would again leave his giant bow aside, leaning it against the wall, and either pick up a half-carved arch tree bark from the floor to keep up with his newfound hobby, or succumb himself to a brief slumber.

Gough always carried a characteristic aura of peacefulness and kindness within him; his modulated voice was soothing to listen to. While his ilk was a prodigious one on certain jobs, such as the forge and craft of weapons, it wasn't specifically good at chatter. Gough had explained to Ornstein how giants weren’t any different than the humans and demigods dwelling in Anor Londo, yet their minds were fragile ones. Were they subdued to a violent conviction of slavery, they would slowly lose their sanities, turning them into the monsters they were believed to be, according to ancient myths.

“There is more in a giant than meets the eye.” Gough told him. “Be kind to any of them, and they will respond in kind.”

He was cheerful and supportive even in the darkest hours; and although Ornstein truly enjoyed his company, he noticed the absence of his mentor more than anything.

Of course, the stubborn heart inside him would never dare to admit it.

“You’re welcome to visit me for as long as you wish, my friend.” Gough always reminded him, his huge hand gently engulfing the whole of Ornstein’s shoulder pad. The lion knight showed him his sincere gratitude, and retired back to Anor Londo’s Cathedral.

Particuarly, he felt tired that day, without a reason to be.

Oddly enough, he hadn’t even felt this tired when he spent day and night spilling dragon blood.

Ornstein stopped to look at his collection of beheaded wyverns posing on his trophy room walls. He had never intended to finish it up.

What use was he now? What news were brewing in Lord Gwyn’s schedule?

His task had been reduced to escorting Gwynevere during public events, and although many of the knights would gladly serve the Princess of Sunlight and show it off afterwards, Ornstein wasn’t entirely satisfied with his new job.

He headed upstairs, to the large corridor where his chamber was. Even inside the safety of his armor, Ornstein sensed cold seizing his quarters. The windows had remained open for days, and the dust had already spread over furniture, carpets and even over his tidy bed. He was able to resist sleep for quite long, and his body had barely met the warmth of the sheets, but in that moment, he declared himself exhausted.

With a deep sigh, he removed his helmet first, freeing the length of his red hair, which was always tied in a ponytail. The motion triggered a vague memory: when he and Artorias had met long ago, the wolf knight had mistaken his hair for a plume, which had made Ornstein gloat over the clear confused look on his friend’s face when he had assured him how he had never worn a plume.

He had intended to cut it off, many times. There was always someone who convinced him otherwise.

The gauntlets came next. Ornstein frowned at the unexpected calluses on his fingers, trying to rub the dryness off his hands. When had it been the last time he had taken these off? Strange that his skin hadn’t turned into ash yet. He held the lion’s visage between his hands, which was cold against his bare skin; little moments like these, when he truly didn’t have a reason to be on guard anymore, were the ones when he would allow himself to be private and delighting in looking at small simple details like the sharp tips of the helmet’s teeth, or its enraged eyes, always charged with unsated fury. He noted on the faint light casting through the windows, gleaming over the brass of his armor. This shell of his had met more battles than hundreds of Gwyn’s thundering bolts, yet there was never the tiniest speck of dust on it. Ornstein’s lips tilted up smugly after discarding the presence of a scratch or a rust.

Something in his chest swelled; somehow, it looked as if this golden carcass of his could never die.

But when his gaze wandered towards the forgotten lightning spear against the wall, that brief glimmer of haughtiness vanished like fog.

He was still Ornstein the Dragonslayer; only that there were no dragons to slay, not anymore. But then, it didn’t matter how much he had been entitled to his burden; without its purpose, his armor lost all the meaning it held.

Perhaps he should spend more time with Gough, he thought. Maybe he should find a hobby to keep himself entertained while he could.

How inconvenient.

He placed the helmet and the gauntlets on a wooden desk, then proceeded to strip himself off the rest of his majestic weight, leaving only his undergarments on. Ornstein’s eyebrows quirked up after noticing the slimness of his figure in the mirror, as well as the ugly bags under his eyes and his prominent cheekbones. He no longer was the man he used to be, and he wondered if this reflection would end up worsening with time until it rotted, like a flower dying of dehydration.

Lips pursed tight, his brain filled with a wave of intrusive thoughts as he drew the curtains to finally retire into his bed with a grunt. In his thoughts appeared Seath the Scaleless, who fueled Ornstein for having revealed the only weakness of his brethren to the First Lords; Gwyn was the next one to pop into his mind; he wasn’t any better than his confidante, for he was the one who ordered and pursued the extinction of dragons and succeeded with it.

Ornstein’s stomach churned when Gwynsen stormed into his brain without warning; surprisingly enough, his presence didn’t amend him.

“ _What are you doing here? Don’t you have your own business to attend to?_ ”

“ _No. You’re wrong. You’ve led us, the dragon slayers, into our doom._ ”

“ _I hate you, just as much as I hate them._ ”

And with one last look at the scattered pile of golden armor on the floor, he made up his mind: he was determined to never obey a single order from either of them, ever again.

Even if his foolishness led him under the executioner’s great hammer. 

* * *

_Knock! Knock!_

Ornstein grumbled and stirred in his sleep. He had bitterly dreamed of Artorias and Ciaran disturbing his lethargy, which in the end, it hadn’t turned out to be a dream at all. He hoped, for the love of Izalith and all of these bastards, that the knocking wasn't coming from either of them again…

_Knock! Knock! Knock!_

But then, one could only hope.

“Leave!” His voice was hoarse and muffled by the sheets. “You unsavory fools! I don’t need your—”

“Dragon Slayer Ornstein!”

Ornstein hit the floor with a thud, dragging the sheets along with him.

“If you don’t get your lazy arse out there right this instant, I swear I’ll knock this door down myself and kill you with my bare hands!”

He got up and unlocked the door as fast as a beam, only to meet Gwynsen behind it, eyes boiling with anger and grey hair in disarray. He looked truly animalistic, like he was possessed by some mad demon. Ornstein’s heart throbbed so loudly beneath his ribcage he could hear it drumming in his ears. Gwynsen’s teeth were on display, his nose was wrinkled and his nostrils were flaring dangerously. _Resembling a dragon_ , Ornstein thought.

The muscles of his face loosened ever so briefly when he scrutinized his knight, who was struggling to maintain his composure.

Anytime, he would be grounded. Exiled even. Now, the mere thought sickened him.

Then, Gwynsen’s gaze fell down, and Ornstein watched the dark fade off his master as a faint shade of pink dusted his cheekbones. The God of War cursed out loud in front of him, and turned around, clearly scandalized.

Perhaps it was the fogginess clouding his head, or the adrenaline still rushing through his veins, or the fright that, for a second, had overcome his body; all Ornstein did in return was cocking an eyebrow. Only when he followed the path Gwynsen’s eyes had taken he _noticed_.

“Put your armor back on!”

Ornstein shielded himself with both arms, as if that would actually help. “M-my pardon, your Grace. I’ll—”

“Shut up! Just shut up!” Gwynsen was still with his back turned on him. “I’ll be waiting for you at the bottom of the staircase. Do not—”, he paused and cleared his throat, choosing his words carefully before continuing, “—vanish off the face of the earth like that again. They thought you gone for real.”

And Gwynsen’s footsteps echoed in the corridor as he strode away, leaving Ornstein standing by the doorway and with the lingering wonder of how much had it been since he had locked himself into his room.

Whatever it was, it didn’t matter. A slow and painful death was definitely better than all the embarrassment he was feeling.

* * *

“Well, what is it that you see, I wonder?”

Ornstein’s fist clenched shut when a voice inside a helmet scoffed nearby. He took a deep breath and forced himself to relax.

“I wish I could see the look on your face right now. It would be easier for me to guess.” The words were full of mockery.

Ornstein dropped his head in resignation, wondering if the ashamed redhead in the reflection would die forever as well, might his spear be able to pierce the dusty glass until it broke. He wrestled with his arms to free himself from the magical chains that kept him restrained.

“Hush that. There’s no way for you to escape, little lion.” Whoever it was who had been talking to him, approached closer. Ornstein felt nausea building up when metal-clad fingers forced his chin up.

“Not until I've seen _everything_.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ops, chapter turned out longer than intended.


	3. Gluttony

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The rewriting is done. The first part of the chapter remains intact, but there's a huge change in the second part, and the ending changes as well. This chapter refused to let me work on the next one, and I couldn't move forward until I rewrote part of the second half, which honestly left me unsatisfied. 
> 
> As always, I apology if there're errors as i'm not native speaker, but mistakes are welcome to be pointed out.

                  

 

The news regarding Velka’s third pregnancy spread like wildfire throughout the mighty Land of Anor Londo. The city had been garbed for the awaited occasion: trees dazzling with shimmering gold towered over men and women dressed with appropriate apparel, chosen carefully by the Lord of Sunlight himself: white satin robes and gleaming jewelry. Their feet stepped onto gorgeous roseate petals scattered over the floor tiles, all leading to the stairs up to the Cathedral, where the feast would take place.

Only a few had been invited. The rest would await greedily for the baptism of the newborns.

That morning, Velka paced quietly down the sunny flourishing gardens of the city, accompanied by her husband, while Gwynsen and Gwynevere followed behind; the princess of Sunlight being escorted by Ornstein, who walked behind the sheltered with his head held high in false loftiness. Only the heavy clattering of his armor interrupted the silence of the gardens, although none but the flitting birds seemed to really mind.

The family stopped at a high lookout rising over the entirety of Lordran. The land beneath was misted with grey, although some buildings were particularly visible from that area, such as the coliseum and the watchtowers. Ornstein spotted Artorias standing in a far corner, but the wolf knight remained nonchalant about their presence, entirely focused on the landscape before him.

Gwyn helped Velka sit on an ivied bench. “Oh, don’t concern yourself, Husband,” the Goddess assured, “I could still twist your arm at lightning speed if I wanted to.”

“I do not question it, my dear.” Gwyn chuckled, and raked his fingers through the black amber strands falling down Velka’s back. “Your deadly spirit will persist even in your utmost frailties.” He dropped his hand on her swollen belly, his joy being quickly replaced by his prevailing worry. “But unless someone comes and wields their weapons at you, this wild spirit shall remain at bay. You’re almost there.”

Velka smiled widely, fingers entwining with Gwyn’s. Ornstein watched how the woman’s fingers clutched at his husband’s tightly as her cheerful expression fell off, turning into one of sorrow.

“Sometimes I can hear its heartbeat.”

Gwyn didn’t reply. Ornstein stirred uncomfortably inside his armored suit; the situation felt too private, too personal for him to stay there, as if he was intruding on it. He searched for his mentor, and found him conversing with Artorias at the far end. He could join them, spare himself the discomfort, and allow the Gods their deserved time together. Alone.

Perhaps Velka had read his thoughts.

“Sir Ornstein, would you do the favor to escort Gwynevere for a walk?”

Oh.

He decided she was pretty awful at it.

“My pleasure, your Highness.” Hadn’t he worn his helm, they would have seen the gloom deceiving the fake confidence in his voice. By the time being, he would fulfill his task as a faithful Knight and pretend he wouldn’t rather be with someone else, somewhere. Gwynevere’s lips tilted up, and gently took his metal-clad hand in her gloved one.

In all the years he had proudly served the Lord of Sunlight and his royal ties, Ornstein hadn’t been aware altogether of the incandescent aura emanating from the Princess, whose appearance persisted as a fragile and pure one, bordering on innocent. He knew she was radiant, like the sun itself. Perhaps even more. But when she walked, a trail of sparkling gold was left on everything her feet tread, making the rocks and leaves gleam under the light she spread. No wonder knights and paladins were willing to go mad for her hand. Anyone would dream of marrying the beautiful daughter of a god; but Gwynevere, despite her prestigious status, was unlike her mother, a powerful sorceress as skilled in the arts as in the handling of a blade.

“Sir Ornstein, would thou teach this young Princess the wielding of a sword?” Gwynevere asked joyfully. “Father says it’s not appropriate for someone of my nature, but I wish I could do just like Mother.”

The lion knight raised his eyebrows and turned his belligerent visage to find her gentle eyes staring back at him. He was surprised at the genuineness in both her words and her expression.

“I doubt I’m most suitable for this, your Highness. My skills revolve around little else than the slaying of dragons. Perhaps you should ask Knight Artorias; he is most fitting for your request.”

Gwynevere waved her hand. “The thing about Knight Artorias is that he’s somewhat… distant.” The Princess admitted, keeping the distinctive gentleness in her voice. “He’s charming, truly, and bears his own definition of politeness… One I’m not entirely fond of, but—”

She stopped short. Ornstein looked up only to find his peripheral vision being blocked by hair as brown as cocoa. He took a step forward so to learn what had drawn the Princess’ attention, and he saw her looking at a bush of blooming flowers; their shape, round, with flat quilled petals with a slight roll at the tips. He recognized these. Gwynevere approached to it, and picked up a blossom with thin delicate fingers.

She inspected the bud thoroughly; the one she had chosen was a fiery red with a fading orange pattern on the edges. It was large enough to occupy the whole of her hand, and she brought it over to her nose in an attempt to capture the smell.

These type of flowers only grew in the core of these royal gardens. Ornstein knew of the gleaming ones from the Woods and the crystal ones located in the depths of Seath’s Crystal Cave, but none of these equated their purity and allure. Those who would perish outside the enclosures of Anor Londo, slaves of the hard-working life in the Undead Burgs, would never marvel themselves with such a sight.

“Father usually comes to collect these for Mother.” Gwynevere explained. “When I was a little girl, she loved bringing me here, and she would teach me everything about this garden. I suppose thou remember when Brother would complain about the odorous perfume I wore?” She chuckled, her face lit up by the cheerful yearning the memory inflicted. “Well, Mother was the one to blame. She is a stylish witch with a soft little heart, despite it all.”

Ornstein’s hum was muffled by brass, but still audible in the quiet atmosphere of the place. He scowled behind his lion helm. “I thought Dahlias had no odor.”

Gwynevere turned to face him, her hair fluttering gracefully behind her back.

“Of course they don’t. She made headbands out of these.”

A bumblebee buzzed nearby. Ornstein thought vaguely of the smell of pollen.

“Dahlias were my particular favorites. This one is an Alpen Fury . Strikingly beautiful, isn’t it?” Ornstein silently watched white gloved fingers combing softly through flat petals. He could feel her eyes studying him as he sought for the right answer to fill in the gap in his wordless chat.

“Oh, I beg your pardon, mighty dragon slayer. I suppose thou art not amiable of small talk.” Her voice was fond.

Ornstein looked out of the corner of his eye. Gwynevere remained still as she placed the flower in her auburn locks, shooting a flirtatious glare at the impassive warrior. She resumed her walk, and Ornstein’s cumbersome armor scraped loudly as he followed her, his movements not as graceful as Gwyn’s daughter’s, for the Princess could have been walking effortlessly on thin air.

“Brother told me about flower symbolism once.” Gwynevere remarked. Ornstein cocked an eyebrow. Gwynsen liked flowers?

“Dost thou know about it, Sir Ornstein?”

Ornstein shot her a quizzical look. “I’m afraid I am no connoisseur of such topic.” He replied, head bowed in perpetual courtesy.

Gwynevere raised an eyebrow, her face one of complete amusement. “Yet thou know Dahlias are odorless.”

After a while, he heard her laughing. The sound made him roll his eyes, wondering if the Princess was delighting herself with a mental image of him leaning forward over the bushes to smell the blooms; a scene as abstract as ridiculous as it was, if he was truly honest.

Something took hold of his arm, forcing Ornstein to stop in his tracks. He was one full head taller than the Heiress to the Throne, but he found himself face to face with her light-brown eyes regardless, crystal clear now that she was closer. Too close…

The perfume she wore —some kind of exotic fragrance which reminded him of lilies —was heavy and it reached his nostrils. Her hand was clutching at his wrist in a steady grip. Ornstein’s mouth parted to protest, but the words that left Gwynevere’s lips left him thunderstruck.

“I see as much in thine soul, faithful knight; I see a man, willing to sacrifice everything to stand out from the crowd, and thus pursuit his own unique path.” Gwynevere explained, her voice an echo, despite the undertone with which she was speaking. “A man who remains kind, albeit on being teased by events that marked him for life. I see a man without a loss of forbearance, even though challenges test him day after day.”

Her hand, the one that had been hanging limp on her side, raised up. Gwynevere grabbed the edges of his leonine helm. Ornstein didn’t move.

“I see a man drawing upon his inner strength to seek out his own meaning in life.”

Ornstein narrowed his eyes, his vision blurring a bit and his throat tightening. But he didn’t react, didn’t retaliate, when the Princess, finally, exposed his face.

He was at loss of words. Her gaze stung like poison, for not only was she looking into his soul; now, completely bared of his facade, Gwynevere could also read the dissatisfaction, the unhappiness, the bitterness long lingering on each line of his roughened countenance.

“I see a Dahlia in thee, Sir Ornstein. And I see a man digging his grave as he seeks for a gateway to escape his wretchedness.”

“Your Highness…”

Despite the raw truth, her voice was soothing. But to the dragon slayer, it lacked the solace he so craved for.

“Yet, I can see further; and here and now, I see a man about to commit himself in great measures to someone very dear to him.”

Ornstein blinked in bemusement, his heart beating in loud staccatos despite it not being engined by the Princess’ physical proximity, but by the implication of what her observation had caused. Overcome by a tumult of emotions he took care to tuck inside, he hardly felt her hand reaching out to cup the curve of his jaw, the touch as delicate and sinuous as the tip of a feather, and her thumb rubbing over the side of his cheek...

A deep, rasping sound brought them out of their reverie.

Gwynsen had come after them, and stood now still before the pair. Had he been following them all along or not, Ornstein couldn’t tell, but his glance was swinging darkly from his younger sister to the dumbfounded knight; his silhouette was ridiculously tall enough for his shadow to loom over them both, and there was a glimpse of something akin to reluctance lingering across his face, although it was soon replaced with the harshness Ornstein had known in him for so long.

When he spoke, his voice matched the coldness and passivity etched on his expression:

“Sir Ornstein, my Father claims your attention. We are returning to the Palace.”

Ornstein’s stomach churned and he might as well have shrunk a little into his spot when Gwynsen held out his arm for his sister. Gwynevere shot the knight a confident look as she handled him his golden helm, and gladly took his brother’s arm.

It took Ornstein willpower to detach himself from the ground and to follow the siblings back to the place. As he walked behind them, he watched his master’s grey locks waving in the wind, the movement gentle and elegant, and the red haired knight had to swallow a lump in his throat to breathe steadily again. 

Ornstein realized how much he missed his master. He missed him truly, as his obstinate heart liked to remember when he was off guard, and he longed for him. Sometimes, the feeling became unbearable even. Whatever it was this feeling, he didn’t want to put a name to it.

But Gwynsen had become unattainable, isolation barely leaving him where he went. The lion knight wondered if he had been the one causing it, in some way, why his lord was not and couldn't be the same man anymore.

For the moment, Ornstein would live with it.

 

* * *

 

 

The thing about royal feasts was that it conceived the right for those less authoritative to partake in their pleasures. While food didn’t necessarily lurk as an underlying necessity, for most of these people were Gods and concoctions, as well as carriers of the most powerful soul, it did, however, fulfill the joy of stuffing their mouths and pamper their palates with something tasty and enticing, at least once in a lifetime.

A large counter in the foyer had been trimmed with a colorful sample of delicacies: huge trays of fruit with bright juicy grapes; big slices of bread, wineskins, and huge plates with meat and fish. What made one’s mouth water was, however, the succulent smell that drifted over the place.

It was, as any human would say, Food for the Gods. And although Ornstein’s soul had been proudly merged with that of the son of one, he sensed a signal of prohibition might his hands ever lay on the comestibles that glinted before his wandering gaze. The temptation of digging his teeth into a slice of meat pie was strong enough to make him momentarily forget about Gwynevere’s words and Gwynsen’s hardened face that morning.

Lord Gwyn’s voice was loud and reverberating, reminding his people to enjoy that special day, and to eat and drink as much as they pleased, in honor of Velka’s soon-to-be-born twins, and her status in the dynasty. Ornstein eyed two of his companions scattered around, who shared his task of protecting the commensals, their weapons on sight and pose straightened up. Lots of silver knights and sentinels were on their guard as well. Gough stood out from the crowd, and after taking consideration for a while, Ornstein paced towards the giant, the clattering of his armor barely audible amongst the turmoil of people.

Even though all of them wore their respective helmets, the knight had known Gough long enough to sense when the archer was about to get beaten by weariness. He was just good at hiding it.

“I hope things are going alright for you.” Gough wished him hoarsely. “Things surely aren’t for these enslaved giants in the Fortress. If they could only see this…”

Ornstein nodded; he had learned that Gough’s kind was noble and determined, and a job that could have been depicted as enslaving was taken with strength and value, if anything to endure the respect towards the Gods, but the image of having an iron belt strapped around his neck like a wolfhound in the condemn of a lifetime serving the fortress’ walls was not something that he took special pleasure in.

“I don’t think they’re entirely forgotten.” Ornstein said to his friend, as in a way to reassure him. The lion knight heard a chuckle reverberating inside of the archer’s helmet.

“Captain Gwynsen’s heart is not known for its mildness, is it?” Gough said hushedly, “anyway, forget my words, my friend. I know how fond you are of him.”

Ornstein cocked his head to the side, his chest tightening for a brief moment before focusing his gaze down. “I, uh— well. I should speak with him.” He said with a stutter. “Can you spot him around for me?”

Gough’s chuckle was low and muffled. “Oh, yes I know. The crowd is too much of a hassle for someone so small, right? What’s better than asking Hawkeye Gough, the leader of the Great Archers, to scan over the horizons?“ The giant said, and Ornstein found himself smiling, despite it all. After a brief interval, Gough detailed the direction and pointed at it with a thick finger. Ornstein thanked him with a polite bow of his head, his large ponytail swishing as he did so, and walked towards the location the archer had indicated.

He broke himself through the tumult, ignoring the smell of food that made his stomach growl as he fought back the urge to stare at it like a starved man; he wondered when had apples become so shiny, or since when did roasted boar look so enticing.

Somehow, his hunger progressively came to a halt when he spotted his master and captain at a corner, chatting with both Gwyn and Velka, and his sister. She was wearing a different dress, he noticed, but she still had the Dahlia carefully tucked in her auburn locks, combed down with excellent thorough.

Ornstein approached and bowed at the Gods. “My Lords.”

The mirth in Gwyn’s face lit up like Ornstein had never seen before. “Knight Ornstein! We hope that you’re enjoying yourself in such a merry day.”

Ornstein nodded with his head, and he took off his helm as the atmosphere inside it had begun to overheat.

“No complaints, my Lord. I too hope you’re sharing a good moment with your spouse.”

Gwyn laughed and agreed. “I think I had never known such a genuine burst of happiness ever since our son took down his very first dragon.” He said while pointing at his first born. His scarf covered his mouth and up to the bridge of his nose. Ornstein wondered why he never took off his scarf even during celebrations. “But here we are, happily married and awaiting two more beautiful offsprings I no doubt they will do magnificent things in their lifetime.”

Ornstein smiled. He was, in a way, thankful for Lord Gwyn’s intervention at distracting his troublesome thoughts. Anxiety had slowly cooled down, and even now, Gwynsen’s presence was not much than a weak distraction from his temporary comfort. True, he had matters that needed to settle down with him, but if he could delay them some more, no harm would come off it, right?

“Oh my, have you looked at yourself?” Velka yelped, a hand covering her mouth as if in shock. “For someone who has gone hunting dragons for so long, you do look like you haven’t eaten something in years.” She handled him a few sausages from one of the trays. Ornstein shook his head politely.

“I thank you, lady Velka. I’m not actually very hungry, however.”

But the Goddess insisted, and possibly encouraged by the everlasting smile on Velka’s lips, a sigh left by the knight’s own before giving in and picking up a sausage from the porcelain tray. The meat dribbled with juice around his fingers, staining the golden of his gauntlets.

“We refuse to raise lanky knights, don’t we?” Velka jested.

Ornstein took a bite, deciding the taste was suspiciously good. Even though he felt a little uncomfortable with having to eat in front of the Lords, and especially in front of his master, his stomach was a quiet beg and the knight couldn’t refuse.

His shoulders relaxed when Velka ignored him and turned her gaze towards her husband.

“So is everything settled then? Gwynevere’s marriage?” Velka asked with excitement.

“I believe so.” Said Gwyn.

Ornstein took another eager bite from the sausage. The conversation between his superiors had begun to dissolve, voices barely being heard at the back of his head as he kept himself occupied with satiating his stomach.

“What marriage?” He barely heard Gwynsen ask, his manner gruff as ever.

Ornstein swallowed down the food.

“Oh, didn’t we tell you? Our princess is marrying dragon slayer Ornstein!”

Ornstein fought back the urge to cough, uselessly, for the food had stuck in his windpipe and threatened to choke him alive.

_Wait, what?_

He was unsure if he had listened well.

“Oh, don’t make this face.” Part of him believed that Velka was indeed offended by his reaction and was now talking to him. “They will make a good couple, I just know it.” But Ornstein glimpsed at her hand reaching up and her fingers fondly pinching the cheek of a, somewhat surly god with grey hair and a dark temper. “Uh, ease off the tension. One day, you shall get married too.”

Ornstein watched how no response came from Gwynsen but a bewildered look that, by the lion warrior’s knowledge, could burn an entire kingdom down.

His coughing came to a halt, but was very thankful when Velka offered him a glass of water. His bitterness, however, was starting to make its aggravating way to the surface.

“Are you excited to marry our beautiful daughter?” This time, it was Gwyn’s voice. “You’ve done so much for our family, and Gwynevere has told us many times how much she appreciates your company. This is a huge opportunity that shall not be rejected from my right hand.”

Ornstein patted his fingertips against the glass’ surface nervously. Right. What was he supposed to respond to that? What even in front of _him_?!

“I -... uh… Well, I have no doubt that your daughter possesses a unique light that could enchant anyone. She’s lovely in her own way, and… uh...” He struggled to swallow his insecurity, and silently cursed himself for probably looking so transparent in front of their superiors that he seriously wanted to hide the conflict in his face inside of his helmet for the sake of it. Damn, he wanted to look at Gwynsen, wanted to see a glimpse of what could have been crossing the lord’s mind, even though he too wanted to ignore completely whatever it was what he might see. He realised how coward he became when his own feelings were put into play.

Velka and Gwyn were waiting for a response; even Gwynevere’s eyes reflected genuine hope and there was something else in her countenance which reminded Ornstein of the early walk in the gardens, when she had been so close to him he had been able to smell her…

In all the years he had served them, there was only one thing he had always been truly aware of: of how his chest warmed when the one who had made him first knight walked alongside him, or when his younger self won a battle and the skin around his captain's eyes wrinkled, and the next thing he was doing was releasing his joy in a laugh that made Ornstein smile fondly in return, or how his heart increased its tempo when his captain hugged him, strong arms enclosing him into the space between them and his chest, which in more than one occasion Ornstein had comfortably leant his cheek on.

But happy memories had been long ago. And personalities change, for better or for worse. And he was afraid more than anything of the most painful rejection he could experience might he dare to expose his heart.

He closed his eyes, realising that this was a point of no return.

Ornstein took a deep breath. He had made a choice.

“I… I am honored to accept your daughter’s hand, my Lord Gwyn. I am willing to endure her happiness for as long as I live, let alone the constant protection of the heiress and the certainty that the lineage endures eternally.”

There. It was done. Ornstein felt dizzy, the walls around him quaking. He feared he was getting sick, for the smell of food was now unbearable.

There was silence lingering amongst them, despite the tinckling noise of pottery and porcelain in the background. Ornstein squeaked when a pair of arms pulled him towards a firm chest. The dragon slayer found himself pressed tightly against Lord Gwyn’s armored torso as the king patted his back in a congratulatory attitude.

“See, I’ve always suspected the way you felt about my daughter. My heart is at peace knowing that her future awaits her safety and affection from such a noble man.”

Another hand patted his head; Ornstein imagined it was Velka’s. Gwynevere was blushing, but she too looked excited even discreetly so. Then, he made eye contact with Gwynsen, but as soon as his eyes met his, the god looked away as if offended that Ornstein had dared to lay eyes on him.

He felt that his heart was being ripped out of him, piece by piece. Gwyn’s arms were becoming suffocating.

Gwynsen excused himself. Ornstein watched him making his leave towards the door. His body screamed to escape Gwyn’s embrace brusquely and following his master out; but what was the point on doing so?

"Oh, I shall have a few words with him afterwards." Gwyn threatened.

The moment Ornstein was freed from the crushing grasp, he almost crumbled to the ground, out of misery than anything else. He hid the feeling with a gentle but fake smile.

Gwynevere, who had come very close, trailed a fingertip across his jaw. "I will let thee finish thy meal, dragon slayer. But, I think I'm allowed to have my way now."

Ornstein let Gwynevere kiss him on the lips softly. Loud applauses and whistles were heard amongst the crowd, but he was very wretched, although not even close to what his soul was actually feeling; he responded the kiss as best as he could, though; not the first time he kissed someone, and not the first time it was a loveless act; but his heart had not been broken back then and he definitely hadn’t been left out by the one and only he had ever truly loved.

But he respected the princess and he indeed would try to make Gwynevere happy, if that was his lords’ wishes, for all chance with _him_ had been wasted.

 

* * *

 

 

The room where he was being kept remained as dark as an abyss, and his captor’s face was as a wonder as it had been to him. He felt sick, angry, worn-out . All he had learnt about the subject was that his finger was neatly wrapped in silver, but he hadn’t been even able to see a poor glimpse of his helm. He was certain it was, for what he had deduced about his disembodied voice, a male. It was gruff and croaky, but unlike his master’s, a truly unpleasant sound to listen to. Ornstein inspected the chains around his wrists that kept him firmly bounded. They were undoubtedly fabricated with black magic, indeed built up by those spiteful silver-clad hands.

And then, there was the mirror, which matched the silvery tone of his captor’s embodiment.

“That was tragic.” The voice said theatrically from a moderated distance. “And now we move on.”

Ornstein felt anger burning its way up. “What do you want from me?”

The man chuckled, but he didn’t answer promptly.

The mirror gleamed before him. Ornstein released out a wheezy sound before looking up into the glass.

He heard a pair of footsteps rounding the obscured room. “I think it’s more of a matter of what is it that you want with me.” The voice hissed.

As the reflection gradually took shape, Ornstein shuddered, but not from cold.

He knew what was coming next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From now on I should continue this fic, AND hopefully finish it someday. 
> 
> I apology for the broken hearts I may have caused.


End file.
